


A man for the making

by uumuu



Series: Our Heaven [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Hate Sex, Implied Fëanor/Fingolfin/Finarfin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aegnor is annoyed, Turgon is annoyed, and Curufin prods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A man for the making

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately after 'A catch for the chasing, a jewel for the choosing' (the title being the continuation of the lyrics), though I don't think it's necessary to read that to understand it.

The lavish dinner that crowned the celebrations for Finwë's begetting day had almost reached its conclusion. Aicanáro loitered in a corner of the vast dining hall, removed from the knots of chattering guests, whiling away the time remaining before the last toast and felicitations, when those that wished to would be free to leave.

A servant came up to him to refill his cup, and distracted him long enough for Findecáno to approach him without him noticing. They nearly bumped into each other as Aicanáro turned to head towards the windows. 

He muttered a half-hearted pleasantry and stiffly brought the cup to his lips, trying to pretend that he wasn't annoyed and wishing that Findecáno would go away on his own. 

Findecáno followed him to the balconies. 

“I'm worried about Father,” he began, as soon as they were far enough from possible eavesdroppers again. “He looks...odd tonight. He keeps squirming on his seat.” 

Aicanáro choked on the sweet wine, barely managing to gulp it down instead of spitting it all over the marble floor and the precious rugs. He had a precise idea of why his uncle might have trouble sitting still, but he couldn't share it with Findecáno. 

Findecáno didn't notice his discomfort. His eyes followed his own father as he talked to two of the Telerin envoys, together with Anairë and Eärwen. 

Aicanáro had been doing the same – observing – though his attention had been focused elsewhere.

“He has been off all day actually, but since we've sat down to dinner he's been...twitchy,” Findecáno continued. “I wonder if it has something to do with Fëanáro...he can be so unpleasant about the smallest things, and since it's grandfather's begetting day-...cousin?”

Aicanáro realised he had been pursing his lips. He buried his face in his glass again, and took another sip of the wine before replying. 

“Well, yes, Fëanáro is...invasive,” he said, and grimaced inwardly at his own choice of adjective.

“Father should just ignore him, like your father does...but he's too considerate, too -”

Aicanáro could have screamed. His father was so bothered by Fëanáro's unpleasantness – he ignored him so well – that he loved to be fucked by him, and did so at regular, carefully planned intervals. He closed his eyes for a moment, cursing, as he remembered how he had discovered them together, in his father's own bedroom – Arafinwë riding Fëanáro's cock, rocking his hips like a cheap dancer in a disreputable tavern. In public, they kept a convenient distance, and looked, as it was expected, like two opposite ends of a pole that were never to meet. 

Aicanáro was at least thankful that his father had been honest with his mother. He wouldn't have forgiven him if he had deceived her, and it helped him allay the fear that his love for Alqualondë was merely a smoke screen. _'We all need some contrast'_ , he had said, when Aicanáro had confronted him on the matter. He had to concede that there wasn't somebody more different from Arafinwë than Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë was an unwelcome intrusion in that picture.

“Your father isn't much better than Fëanáro.”

“What -” Findecáno exclaimed, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

Aicanáro turned to face his cousin.

“Your father and Fëanáro are exactly the same, your father only hides it,” he sharply said, and walked away.

*

Aicanáro's assertion circuitously reached Turucáno. Findecáno, more puzzled than he had been before talking to his cousin, voiced his concerns to Angaráto, along with a complaint on Aicanáro's 'gratuitous rudeness'. Angaráto, in turn annoyed, relayed the incident to Findaráto, and Findaráto mentioned it to Turucáno.

Turucáno, who had been trying (unsuccessfully) to come up with an excuse to approach Elenwë that wouldn't sound as awkward as he felt whenever he looked at her, welcomed it as the perfect distraction. Elenwë was dazzling in her white gown among the members of the Vanyarin delegation. Any attempt to talk to her that night would have very likely worked in his disfavour. He'd try on the next day, in private (he would).

He decided to take it upon himself to tackle Aicanáro, in the meanwhile.

“Why do you say my father is like Fëanáro?” he asked, as soon as he was in his earshot, without any sort of preamble, and with the clear undertone of _'how dare you compare my father to Fëanáro'_.

Aicanáro didn't take well to that. He had quaffed several more glasses of wine to stop thinking about his uncles and his father and their entanglements, but he wasn't drunk. He was just tipsy enough to be even more riled by Turucáno than he had by Findecáno, and to feel acutely embarrassed at having been spied on by Ñolofinwë all over again. 

He scowled. “He's a...cowardly debauchee, that's why,” he said, though it wasn't exactly right (Fëanáro was a debauchee all right, but not cowardly).

Turucáno's face froze in a grimace of outrage, and his large frame loomed threateningly over Aicanáro, who, however, didn't flinch, and kept scowling at him.

They would have probably ended up quarreling, if Curufinwë hadn't interrupted right then. 

“Cousins,” he said, sidling out of nowhere between them, silent as a cat and not any less haughty.

Turucáno audibly grumbled when he heard the low, suave voice. Aicanáro did too, but not out of annoyance. He risked a glance towards the royal dais. His father was now talking to Ñolofinwë himself.

“Fantastic dinner,” Curufinwë intoned jauntily. “Such a pity your father ruined it by sitting at the table like an unruly child...pardon me for venturing to say this, but I think he should have declined to attend if he wasn't feeling well enough to.”

Aicanáro nodded like a puppet. 

If his father hadn't been present at Finwë's begetting day, it would have reflected negatively on him – that was what Turucáno read into Curufinwë's assertion. 

“He did nothing unbecoming.” 

“He sat like he had something stuck up his ass,” Curufinwë rejoined, “everybody could see that. You didn't?”

Turucáno, to be fair, hadn't been paying much attention to his father, but he refused to believe half a word of what Curufinwë said.

“I suppose you know how it feels to have something up your ass to say that.”

Curufinwë lifted both eyebrows in an exaggerated display of surprise, tilting his head up to fully meet Turucáno's gaze. “As a matter of fact, I do. I do...like –” he cast a sidelong glance at Aicanáro, whose face took on a horrified expression, “– like many of the males in our family. You don't?”

“No, I don't,” Turucáno replied, beginning to wonder what manner of conversation that was. “I like to be the one...on top.”

“Oh, really? I would have assumed otherwise, given your older brother's preferences...and your father's, by the looks of it.”

“Don't you dare -”

“You do it often?”

“No -”

“Is that what you two were discussing? You had plans for tonight?”

“No!” Aicanáro vehemently denied. 

Turucáno agreed with him, in sentiment at least – he yearned to simply slap Curufinwë – for the first time that night. “What about you, do you have plans for tonight?”

“I don't. I'm free.”

“Really, it's unusual not to see you wagging your tail behind your father.”

Curufinwë broke into a lilting laugh. Turucáno's blissful ignorance on the matter of his father's doing a lot more than wagging his tail for his own was entertaining enough for him to pass over his slight. 

“He does have...plans.” 

He took a couple of steps which brought him closer to Turucáno, and reached up to brush a few crumbs away from his ornate surcoat. 

Turucáno felt himself shiver. He wasn't attracted to Curufinwë, but given the excitement of looking at Elenwë, the frustration of not feeling confident enough to approach her, and Curufinwë's own purposeful prodding, he reacted to the fluttery touch in a way he wouldn't normally have. 

“Look at your father,” Curufinwë whispered, still standing unnecessarily close to him. 

Turucáno turned. His father was walking towards Finwë with Arafinwë. 

“...he's limping. Whoever had the honour of using his ass yesterday must have mounted him pretty hard.”

Curufinwë's voice was drowned in joyful clamour as the guests turned towards the dais the moment Finwë stood up to receive their well-wishes, surrounded by his children. Turucáno heard it distinctly, however. He lifted his cup, like his cousins and everyone else, and drank to his grandfather's health, but immediately afterwards he caught Curufinwë's left wrist, and started dragging him towards one of the many doors while the crowd still cheered. Curufinwë tried to dig his heels in, but Turucáno didn't stop. 

“You said you were free, didn't you?...well, you're not anymore.”

“I didn't hear you ask -”

“I heard what you said, and well, I will have the honour of using your ass.”

*

Aicanáro wasn't drunk. He was just tipsy enough not to think about the inhibitions he would otherwise have had, and which would very likely have prevented him from following Turucáno and Curufinwë to the former's room.

He'd certainly never have kissed Curufinwë on the mouth once there, though there was more to his kiss than lust, or the irritation that made Turucáno roughly rip Curufinwë's precious coat and tunic from his body to throw him half-naked and dishevelled on the bed.

Curufinwë adjusted his position on the mattress as if he had just lain down on his own to take a nap.

“High-handed...just like your father,” he jeered.

Turucáno growled and pulled Curufinwë's head up by means of his heavy gold necklace, covering his perfidious mouth with his own. Curufinwë's lips tasted of strawberry flavoured custard and wine, a sheer counterpoint to the acridity of his words.

“You're so big but still act like a child,” he cooed when his mouth was freed, brushing it across Turucáno's chin. 

Turucáno didn't respond to the provocation, not in words. He knew that if they kept talking Curufinwë would find a way to have the upper hand, spinning and twisting words to his own benefit. He had taken Curufinwë to his room to push him off the self-wrought pedestal from which he presumed to judge everybody else and cast aspersions as he pleased. 

“There should be some ointment in the bathroom...a small round ceramic jar, get it,” he said, throwing a beleful glance at Aicanáro.

“So you truly intend to take this further?” Curufinwë asked as Aicanáro scurried off towards the door on the right side of the bedroom, too quickly for his eagerness to owe much to Turucáno's demand. 

His inflaming smirk still played about his lips. 

Turucáno undid his own belt and slid it between his hands. 

“I'll do whatever I please with you.”

Curufinwë smirked. “Ah, Ñolofinwëan self-righteousness...too bad you couldn't do anything if I didn't let you.”

“I shall take advantage of your generosity, then.” 

Turucáno wound the leather belt around Curufinwë's left wrist and tied it to the bedpost. 

The gesture only seemed to further amuse Curufinwë. It had a wholly different effect on Aicanáro, who felt his cock stir despite his intoxication upon re-emerging from the bathroom to find his cousin half-restrained and more undressed, the outline of his cock clearly defined against his breeches. 

Turucáno yanked them down too, but didn't seem to pay half as much attention to Curufinwë's cock as Aicanáro did. He snatched the jar from his ogling cousin, and coated the fingers of his right hand with its content.

“I wonder what that pretty Vanyarin girl would say,” Curufinwë mused – his voice still velvety – while Turucáno knelt between his legs, forcing him to spread them open, “if she knew you manhandle your helpless cousin to stick your fingers inside his ass.” 

Turucáno did exactly that, his left hand pressing against the steely muscles of Curufinwë's thigh.

“Too cowardly to talk to her, but bold enough to manhandle your cousin.”

Turucáno gritted his teeth and pushed his fingers deeper in. Curufinwë rolled his hips, practically fucking himself on them.

“Will you dear Elenwë ever feel them inside her?” he muttered, as Turucáno's fingers slid in and out of him. “Will she be pleasured by your big, skilled hands?”

The sound of her name on Curufinwë's lips – the way he drawled it, his malice, were too much. 

“I love her!” Turucáno snapped. He drew his fingers out of Curufinwë's ass and brought his hand to his cock, squeezing. “I pity your wife, married to somebody who gets hard being _manhandled_.”

“Áyamë never complained,” Curufinwë rebutted, but tensed slightly the harsh touch. “She likes manhandling me too, rather.” Aicanáro gasped, and Curufinwë turned to grin at him. “She does. Why would I have married a boneless, amenable woman? Her father didn't name her Héruminyë for nothing,” he concluded shifting his attention to Turucáno again. “Are you really getting on with it or do I have to lie here like this indefinitely?”

Turucáno was tempted to do just that, walk out and leave Curufinwë on the bed quasi-naked and aroused. He would have, if he hadn't had to explain why his cousin was _tied_ to his bed and aroused to his parents and siblings the next day, and if Aicanáro hadn't been there, stroking his cock and looking very ready to fuck Curufinwë if he didn't. 

“Come on,” the blond urged impatiently. 

Turucáno shot him an incinerating glare, but took his clothing off and readied himself. 

“Do your best,” Curufinwë said, in an openly mocking way that still managed to make Turucáno's cock twitch while he knelt between his legs again.

Even if Turucáno had had any intention of taking it slow before, he would have changed his mind then. Curufinwë didn't deserve gentleness, and probably didn't expect it either. This certainly wasn't _making love_. Curufinwë and he didn't even like each other. 

He put his cock to his opening and forcefully breached him. 

The broken wail that spilled from Curufinwë's throat, the way his insides opened to him and seemed to suck him in, the sudden moist soft heat, yielded Turucáno an even greater thrill than he had expected, made of throbbing pleasure and an almost animalistic sense of triumph, and he had to stop and take a deep breath to steady himself when he was halfway in. 

“Shit,” Aicanáro swore, taking the salve and smearing it clumsily on his cock (and on the sheets). 

Turucáno drew back and pushed further in, deep up Curufinwë's ass. 

The dozens tiny gems attached to Curufinwë's necklace – a cascade of rubies and diamonds and garnets – began rattling with his thrusts, each gradually more forceful. When he fell into a pounding rhythm, pulling on Curufinwë's legs as he rolled his hips into him, the noise grew to the rowdy accompaniment of a frenzied dance.

“So you enjoy getting fucked,” Turucáno taunted, looking down. His cock slid easily inside Curufinwë, whose erection leaked bead after bead of precome on his own belly. “...you're used to it.”

“You're...moderately good...though not enough that you could make me addicted...like your older brother is addicted to...Nelyo's dick,” Curufinwë spat back, haltingly, his body rocking with the thrusts. 

“At least they care about each other.” 

“Do they? I wouldn't be so sure of that.”

Turucáno grunted and mentally reproached himself for giving Curufinwë's snideness free rein again. He pulled out, and clutched his right leg, twisting the lower portion of his body so that he lay half on his side, straining his bound arm with the motion. He immediately re-entered him. His thrusts were spaced out, but each of them was dealt with the full impact of his weight, so that Curufinwë's body would have slid away from him if he hadn't been holding onto his leg.

Curufinwë didn't protest, not even when Aicanáro took his free hand and forced him to curl it around his erection. 

Aicanáro closed his eyes. He relived the heavy touch of his uncle's hand between his legs, how suddenly and ravenously turned-on he had been, the quick build-up to a completion he had never imagined he would need, the afterglow it had left... 

Turucáno's own eyes threatened to drift shut with the effort and the satisfaction, but he didn't want to stop looking. Curufinwë was completely exposed, helpless on his bed, unable to do anything more than give pleasure to him and one other of his hated half-cousins – didn't smirk, didn't spew insults and jibes. His eyes were glazed, his lips parted to let out soft pants and less quiet sobs.

Turucáno relished that pleasure to the fullest, and was himself defenceless against Curufinwë's final taunt. 

“Turvo,” he moaned, staring directly into Turucáno's eyes. 

The sultriness of his voice coupled with a tenderness that was false but sounded temptingly real made Turucáno spill his seed inside him. He barely had time to regain his breath before Aicanáro demanded his turn by shoving him aside and forcing him to let go of Curufinwë's leg.

“This is my bed!” he angrily protested, but Aicanáro was by then way too enraptured to mind him. 

He draped himself over Curufinwë and eased his cock into him, beginning to thrust in a frantic rhythm straight away. 

Curufinwë was at least glad not to be awkwardly twisted anymore, and he could tell Aicanáro wouldn't last long. He knew what drove him.

“Who knows what your father might be doing right now,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over Aicanáro's nape.

“Whatever -” Aicanáro shivered, and pushed his chest out as the fingers hovered between his shoulder blades, “- I'm sure he's enjoying himself. And...in any case...I'm...compensating, am I not?”

“Fucking me once isn't enough for that,” Curufinwë grinned, but raised his head for a kiss. “Make me come.”

Aicanáro straightened and used his right hand to stroke Curufinwë's cock in time with his own thrusts. They came almost at the same time. 

“Get out of this room,” Turucáno enjoined while they were still panting and staring at each other through the haze of orgasm.

“I can't walk now.”

Curufinwë's eyes focused on Turucáno again. Turucáno tried not to focus on them, or on the seed that now stained his chest. 

“You can always limp, can't you?”

“You took him here,” Aicanáro retorted. He gently withdrew from Curufinwë and stood up to face Turucáno.

“And I got what I wanted, with his full cooperation. And you were _uninvited_.”

“Uninvited! Says the son of the guy who -”

“Say one more word about my father and I swear to Eru I'll break your nose.”

Aicanáro bit back the retort that flashed on the tip of his tongue – Turucáno was his older brother's best friend, and he was friends with Findecáno, and it was their grandfather's begetting day. He hastily made himself presentable again, and helped Curufinwë, who had untied the belt himself, put his clothing back on so as to hide the damage to it. When Curufinwë made to stand up, he took him into his arms without much thought (he had never seen his own father limp). 

Turucáno watched them go with his arms crossed over his chest, but his relief was short lived, because just as he closed the door he heard Carnistir screech not too far down the corridor _'what have you done to my brother'_.


End file.
